


An Honest Day's Work

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [41]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 1920s, Art, Artists, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 22:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18584065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Crawford receives a different sort of commission.





	An Honest Day's Work

"I have a commission for you," Schuldig says, lounging back from the table, my robe thrown carelessly about him. He takes a large mouthful of his milky coffee and sighs in satisfaction.

"I do want _some_ time to do my own work," I say.

"Balls. Anyway, it's not the usual. Fredericks needs your - our - help."

"Looking for an introduction, is he?" I say sourly.

Schuldig snorts with laughter. "One of his friends took his watch. His watch that his darling wife gave him. She'll have to notice sooner or later. He wants us to get it back."

"How am I supposed to know anything about that?"

" _Crawford_ , you're an _artist_. You live in a bohemian world of Bolsheviks and foreigners and persons of low morals. I told him you were just the man for him. Discreet, reasonably priced –"

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"Schuldig, I still don't know anything about Fredricks' damned watch."

"I know _exactly_ where it is. Or where the boy who took it is, anyway. We'll get the watch, we'll spin it out a few days for an extra few quid, Mrs Fredricks has the happy glow of knowing her present is being used when she asks what time it is, and everyone's happy." He finishes his coffee and just sits there, looking angelic.

"We can't defraud someone like that if you know where his property is," I say in shock.

"Of course we can. He's a piece of shit, Crawford. You know it, even if you don't want to think about it. We can give the boy some of the money if you want."

"Yes, but he – he paid for a real painting. I mean the private painting was obviously _real_ -"

"It'll pay your rent for the week, it'll pay your food for the week. It'll pay _my_ rent for the week, _my_ food for the week. Fuck it, Crawford, we can ask for enough so that it pays Frankie's food and rent as well."

"Frankie," I say.

"I told you," he shrugs. "I know him."

I spread jam on my bread and eat half a slice, thinking. No one is so rich that they can turn down money. Not me, not any more.

"Does Fredricks want to talk to me before we find this watch?"

"No, he just wants it back. We should get it today, before it vanishes forever."

It seems harmless enough, and the idea of cheating someone like Fredricks is suddenly irresistible. (I have become quite immoral, I am sure you think).

"All right. So we get it back today and tell him it took until Friday and cost days' worth of searching?"

"Until Saturday if we can get away with it."

Schuldig is glowing with mischief and pleasure; I regret doing anything that stops me drawing him. I remind myself that it is my participation in his scheme that is giving him the glow, and go to wash my hands as he quickly pulls on his clothes once more and smooths down his hair.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"This time of day, we should be able to find him in Liverpool Street Station," Schuldig says. "You have enough for the Tube fare, right?"

"Fredricks is paying," I say loftily, digging out a handful of change.

"Of course, we travel everywhere by taxi."

"Of course."

 

* * *

 

"How on earth are we going to find anyone in this place?" I say, as we fight our way up the stairs from the train among the crowd. "It's enormous."

"He's usually somewhere near the Bishopsgate entrance," Schuldig says. "If he's not we wait, or look around." He leads me across the concourse and makes me to pretend to look at the newspapers a vendor is selling. I buy one to make the man less irritated when we loiter.

"There," Schuldig says, and nods at a thin, short boy who comes in to the station and leans against the wall, looking around not quite casually. "Come on." He walks across, quickly, with me behind.

"Frankie, how're things?"

"What're you doing here? Who's the trade?"

"Frankie," Schuldig says with patience, as the boy looks me up and down with clearly professional interest, "this is Mr Crawford. Him and me have come to talk business."

Frankie nods. "All right. I don't mind two – where?"

Schuldig pokes him in the chest, hard.

"Don't be a fucking idiot. Real business, for real fucking money. Now we're going to go and discuss it. Have you eaten today?"

"No," Frankie says. "There's a caff I go to sometimes – who's paying?"

"I am," I say, still coming to terms with the business the boy thought we were proposing.

"Can I have something sweet as well as bread?"

"Yes, of course."

He smiles all at once like a child, and seems so much less the hardened streetwise youth that he might be a completely different boy. He leads us to what proves to be a workman's café, and demolishes a meal of minced meat and potatoes as well as bread and then an unappetizing concoction of what seems to be more bread soaked with custard and dotted with raisins before he will so much as say another word. It seems, I think, that he really had not eaten today.

"Frankie," Schuldig says. "Let's talk. You nicked that fat pig Fredrick's watch."

"Nah," Frankie says. "I never." He drains his mug of heavily sweetened tea. "Can I have another?"

"You did, and he knows you did. If he gets it back and you stay out of his way, you don't have to worry. If he doesn't –"

"You going to beat me up, Fritz?"

I wince a little at the name, though Schuldig doesn't turn a hair.

"Don't be a fool. Me and Mr Crawford are here to help you. Anyone else he sends aren't going to be nice like us."

"Yeah, like he'll put the police on to me. _Oh, officer, just wait till I tell you the particulars of what we was doing when I got that watch._ "

"He could send someone to teach you a lesson, bash in your face," Schuldig says implacably. "What sort of trade d'you think you'd get with your looks gone?"

I clear my throat, deeply uncomfortable. "Actually, I think he might well send the police. He could say you'd pickpocketed him. Rich men are more likely to be believed over poor boys, I'd say."

They both look at me as if vaguely astonished that I have spoken sense. Schuldig makes a gesture that indicates he agrees with me, and Frankie casts his eyes heavenward.

"All right, all right. Maybe I did. But he said my advancing years had robbed me of grace and elegance and I was fit only for the gutter."

It's not a very good attempt at Fredricks' mode of speech, but Frankie's disgust at the unfairness is clear.

"Your advancing – how old _are_ you?"

"Fifteen. That Fredricks, he's a pig, Mr Crawford."

"Yes," I say, simultaneously disgusted with myself to be working for the man and determined to take as much of his money as I can. "Where's the watch?"

Frankie sighs. "I pawned it." He pulls a pawn ticket from his pocket. "I was too scared to sell it outright in case he _did_ send someone after me."

"How much did you get?" Schuldig asks.

"Two quid."

"That's fine. Here's the deal. You keep that –"

" _Really?_ "

"Really. Mr Crawford'll cover getting the watch back, and you fucking _lie low_."

I just nod, glad I took money from my jar of savings earlier this morning.

"OK," I say, "let's get it back."

Frankie takes us to the pawn shop and with some reluctance the owner parts with the watch. He would have made a very nice profit if it hadn't been redeemed, I think. Outside Frankie turns away, but Schuldig grabs his arm.

"I'm serious, don't go anywhere he might see you. Let him forget you."

"We don't all have nice friends like you," Frankie says, then, "yeah, all right. Thanks. You too, Mr Crawford. You're just like Fritz says, you know that?"

"Oh go on, fuck off home," Schuldig says, but he sounds amused.

"So what do you say about me to your friends?" I say as we watch Frankie leave.

"Just that you're an odd Yank painter who really likes seeing me naked," he says, then whirls me around cheerfully. "Let's go and do nothing about this for the next few days while Fredricks worries his wife will notice! Maybe you should send him a telegram saying that you are following a clue."

"Maybe I should," I say. "I heard that masked men were about to use it in the construction of a bomb."

"Good, plausible! You could illustrate the telegram."

In the end, we merely resume our usual work, and refine a somewhat more likely story. At the end of the week I return the watch to Fredricks, along with a list of expenses, bribes for information and a tale of having to buy it back from the person to whom it had been sold. I claim to have had it professionally cleaned before returning it, although I have simply given it a good polish. All in all, Fredricks grumbles, but is actually relieved that his anniversary present is safely back for a mere twelve pounds. Schuldig insists that I take my actual expenses from it, and we divide the proceeds, for a pleasant four pounds and fifteen shillings each. It's merely what I would once have considered spending money, but now the sight of what is over two weeks' wages for a family man is a pure delight.

"Not bad for an afternoon's work," Schuldig says.

"Art is more important," I remind him. "Even if it means starving."

"So says the man who's never starved," he says, but fondly.


End file.
